


Winter of Our (Dis?)Content

by freyjawriter24



Series: Writing prompts and challenges [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Christmas, Cold, Cold Weather, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mistletoe, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Winter, but he'll be alright in the end, snakes don't do well in the cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28779858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: Winter was always Crowley's least favourite time of year. It's a time for unity, for coming together with friends and family, creating a warm little oasis of celebration in rebellion against the dark and the cold. It's also a time for religious celebration, for driving away evil and celebrating the triumph of good, and unfortunately that kind of thing excludes demons. Not to mention it's bloody freezing outside.But it's hard to say no to an angel. And Crowley can't help but want what he wants.***Fic written forineffable-snowmanfor the GO Events server's Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Writing prompts and challenges [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805341
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58
Collections: Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange





	Winter of Our (Dis?)Content

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineffable-snowman (schneemann)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneemann/gifts).



> Title is from Gloucester's speech in _Richard III_ by William Shakespeare (modified ever so slightly).
> 
> Thank you to [Nessa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperVL) for running this mini event! (And thank you for the extra time - the world has been a hell of a place to live in recently!)
> 
>  **Note:** I was given the advice "a little bit of angst with a happy/hopeful ending" in writing this fic, and while I've certainly done the last bit, I'm not sure how well I've judged the measurement of 'a little bit'. Hopefully it's not overdone, but just thought I'd warn here to be on the safe side. There's some fluff at the end, I promise!

Seasons, Crowley was convinced, were one of God's oldest jokes. Other than the dinosaurs, of course.

He didn't pretend to have any real understanding of the Almighty's sense of humour, mind. It was just that, what with everything _else_ that had ever happened, it seemed an odd thing to invent for the world if it wasn't something you thought was inordinately funny.

He oscillated on what the joke was most likely to be. Some days it was 'things change' - a hilarious thing for seasons to imply, given that their cycle was largely regimented and unchanging year after year, and that in the grand scheme of things nothing changed at all. Humans stayed human, living out their lives on Earth, dealing with the fallout of whatever the Horsepersons threw at them. Angels, for the most part, stayed angels. Demons always stayed demons.

Other days - darker days - he thought the joke was more about Death than the other harbingers of the Apocalypse. Specifically, that the changing seasons brought new life, year on year, but also showed that life crumbling, wasting, rotting, at the end of every cycle. A regular reminder of what the humans had brought upon themselves by leaving the Garden, and one God probably found uproarious.

There was also the possibility that it was a joke about something more complex, something completely beyond the range of understanding for anyone except the one who had built the setup and punchline, but if that was the case Crowley had no hope of ever getting it. He was still dead certain it was a joke, though. And mostly, it was a joke on him.

It wasn't that he _hated_ seasons. He loved the vibrant newness of spring, after all, and the warmth of summer, and the cooling _crunch_ of autumn. It was just... well, if he was honest, it was just winter that he hated.

And it wasn't really that he _hated_ winter either, really. It was _beautiful_ , all that glittering ice and snow. But there was a coldness to it - metaphorically as well as literally. Winter was harsh, almost violent. The snake within him rebelled at the lack of warmth, his body constantly on edge with the knowledge of the innumerable ways winter could discorporate you.

But the kicker was that the humans built something wonderful out of it all. In every culture across the globe, when the nights drew in and the temperatures dropped and things were difficult for a while, they would come together. There was a unity built within winter - a time for being with loved ones, for telling stories, sharing food, looking after one another. And Crowley was never allowed in.

Midwinter rituals were, generally speaking, usually focused around religions, of one form or another. Christmas, of course. Yule, preceding it. Hanukkah, Diwali, Malanka, Hogswatch, Saturnalia, Día de los Muertos, Mōdraniht. There were so many of these festivals across time - so many lights in the darkness, so much togetherness through the hardest times. And yet they were also about gods and holiness, or about the triumph of good over evil, or even about the banishment of demons, and Crowley always found himself turning away.

 _That_ was what he really hated about winter. Not the death-trap weather or the insistent lack of green. Just the fact that the celebrations at the heart of the darker months didn't include him.

It was selfish, really. Which he supposed was a good thing, being a demon and all. But he just wanted to feel... like he belonged somewhere. Somewhere _nice_. Somewhere other than a dank dungeon, dirty halls populated by miserable crowds, dripping ceilings, and threats of violence. He just wanted to be accepted, and handed something warm to eat, and invited to share in the ritual of fighting together against the darkness.

But he wasn't _nice_. He didn't belong somewhere like that. He was a being _of_ the darkness, of evil, of Hell. And that was that.

For the first few centuries or so, it wasn't too bad. He learned to hide himself away from the cold as soon as the nights got too long. When he discovered that the seasons were mirrored on the other side of the globe, it was game-changing. He once passed an entire conscious decade without ever seeing his breath form clouds on the night air, simply travelling north or south as the seasons turned towards autumn, and everything would be spring again. It was delightful.

Hell, of course, didn't care about Crowley's temperature preferences, and certainly had no idea about his (as-yet-un-acronymed) FOMO over the winter celebrations. They sent him wherever they pleased - and if that meant journeying to Siberia, or Alaska, or the southernmost tip of Argentina, all in the dead of winter, even on the very _day_ of the traditional pro-warmth and anti-demon festivities, then so be it.

And yes, he hated it.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, _loved_ winter. Of course he did - all these celebrations were practically _made_ for him. Food, stories, laughter, people doing _good deeds_ for each other. Perfect.

Of course, the fact that Aziraphale _loved_ winter tended to make Crowley feel even worse about the whole thing. [1] But there was no reason to stay and witness that joy in the angel, no need to hang around and feel left out. Crowley would leave before it got too cold, or hole up somewhere and sleep through the winter, and let Aziraphale get on with enjoying himself.

That was Crowley's survival tactic. Do something else, think about something else, or think about nothing at all - don't spend ages on the outside looking in. It's not worth it.

It was a good tactic. It lasted him well for over four and a half thousand years.

But somewhere along the line, it stopped.

* * *

"Oh, you are staying at least until midwinter, aren't you? They've got a tremendous feast planned, and there's usually all sorts of celebrations - singing, a play, all sorts of food..."

"Well, I was gonna..."

Crowley paused. Those eyes. How did he _do_ that? He looked so hurt at the mere thought of Crowley leaving, all pleading and sad and hopeful. Big, bright eyes, like a begging puppy. Puppy eyes - yeah, that was it. Puppy-dog eyes. Begging baby blues.

"Yeah, okay, angel, I suppose I could stay for a bit."

Aziraphale clapped his hands together. "Wonderful!"

The demon sighed internally, and made plans to quietly slip off before the religious service.

* * *

It got harder to stay away. Winter came, and he was still there - still in a castle in Wessex, or a mead hall in Bergen, or tucked away with a family who had recently moved to Beloozero. But eventually - inevitably - there would always be something he couldn't attend. A ceremony of some kind, anything with prayers or demonic banishment or (Satan forbid) holy water. Crowley always knew it was coming - his feet could sense the itch of consecrated ground nearby, or local children would tell him excitedly how they scared off the monsters, or he could tell by the pattern of the festivities. At some point, every time, he had to leave.

He was always quiet about it. Disappeared while Aziraphale was distracted, so he wouldn't feel bad. Sometimes he left a short note - _see you later, angel_ \- and sometimes he didn't. Aziraphale never brought it up regardless. He knew why Crowley left.

The problem was that seeing everything and then having to leave - that hurt more. Experiencing all that joy - the humans so excited, Aziraphale so happy - and then having to go. It was worse than never having been around at all.

Yet somehow, he kept coming back.

* * *

Aziraphale settled in London sometime around the fourteenth century. Crowley, quite by coincidence, did the same at almost exactly the same time. It was certainly an interesting choice for a snake demon's permanent residence to be somewhere with semi-regular snowfall, but he had his reasons. It was a good hub of activity, after all, and there were always plenty of people to tempt.

That century was the worst. Famine. Pestilence. War. Death was around every corner, and it felt like the Horsemen must have settled locally too, out of pure spite for Crowley daring to lay down roots anywhere. To make matters worse, it seemed to be getting colder all the time, even in the height of summer. [2]

And every year, winter would come.

Sometimes, he turned down Aziraphale's invitations. Sometimes, he'd feign a mission from Hell, or otherwise invoke their still-new Arrangement and purposely lose a coin-flip that sent him to South Africa for three months. Occasionally - though more often as time wore on - Aziraphale wouldn't even bother to invite him.

And so there Crowley was - always left on the outside looking in.

* * *

"Crowley? What are you doing out here?"

It was ridiculously cold. Well, to be fair, he'd probably experienced colder, but right now his extremities were too numb to be sure. Either way, it was colder in London than it had been for about two centuries. It was probably that Adam's fault - rebuilding the world just a touch out of sync with previous reality or something.

"Crowley?"

It was entirely his fault that he'd gotten _this_ cold, though. He was, very sensibly, wearing a stylish-looking long woollen coat - black as the night, of course, and standing out beautifully against the frost on the cars parked nearby and the salt the gritter lorry had sprayed on the street an hour ago. But it hadn't been quite enough. His fingers, tucked up in fists under his arms, felt like they might fall off any minute. His feet were completely numb, too, and the current state of his nose, forehead, and the tips of his ears were making him wish that hats were cool again.

"Crowley!"

Oh, right, Aziraphale. That was why he was here. Stood, freezing his corporation off, outside the bookshop window. He'd been... thinking. A lot. About a lot of things. Winter, for one. And being alone.

"H-h-h-hi an-n-ngel."

Oh gosh, his teeth were chattering. And - yep, he was shivering. Properly shaking from the cold. Probably looked a right numpty.

"Goodness, look at you. Get inside right now."

"C-c-c-can't. 'S C-c-christmasss."

Aziraphale (quite rightly) ignored him.

Two strong hands landed firmly on his shoulders and steered the demon away from the bookshop window and up to its threshold instead. The door flew open without prompting, and as Aziraphale pushed Crowley over the doorstep a rush of warm air hit him like a wall.

"Ngh," the demon said eloquently, a little stunned by the sudden heat.

Aziraphale led him further into the shop, the door slamming shut behind them.

"What on Earth were you doing, standing out there in this weather. You could have at least put a _scarf_ on, Crowley. And not that little silver tie thing, it doesn't count."

Aziraphale was talking - of that much Crowley was aware. What he was saying, however, was not quite sinking in. They were just words, washing over him, while his body continued to scream at him about _cold hands, cold feet, cold nose, cold ears, cold legs, cold lips, cold head_. Somehow the contrast between the warmth in here and the frozenness of his corporation had made everything worse; now it all _hurt_.

He was pushed downwards, and found himself in a chair - a sofa, to be precise. _His_ sofa. Well, no, not _his_ sofa - Aziraphale's sofa, in Aziraphale's shop, but the one Crowley usually sat on.

His woollen coat vanished and a warm blanket was wrapped around him instead. Aziraphale tucked it in at the front, resting something heavy in Crowley's lap as his did so.

"Now, let me see your hands - oh dear me. Can you hold anything in them? Lets get you a cup of tea, warm those fingers up a bit. Should warm you up from the inside out, too, if you can manage to drink any of it..."

Aziraphale continued to talk, and as the feeling gradually came back to Crowley's corporation, he began to understand what was being said. More importantly, he understood the tone it was being said in. Kindly, gently, but with an undertone that suggested worry.

That wasn't good. Aziraphale shouldn't be worried anymore, not about anything - especially not about him. He was fine.

A warm mug was placed carefully in Crowley's hands, and he gripped it half on instinct. He stared at it for a moment, wondering at the steam rising from it. Then he looked up, eyes searching for something. Something soft, hopeful, upset. Pleading. Puppy-dog blues.

"How are your feet feeling, dearest? I rather want to put them in a bowl of hot water, but I know you're not always a fan of wetness. Would you mind if I miracled them warm?"

"Nnnggep."

Aziraphale swallowed, further worry creasing his forehead even more. Crowley wanted to smooth it away, wanted to say that he was alright, but he couldn't seem to find the words.

"Was that a yes or a no?" the angel asked gently. "You can nod or shake your head instead if that's easier. May I miracle your feet warm?"

"Yyyy..." Blasted words. Why was his mouth not working properly today?

Oh, yeah. Nodding. Nodding was an option. He gave up on speaking and moved his head instead.

"Yes! Good. Excellent." Aziraphale floundered for a second, then disappeared for an instant, reappeared with a cushion in his hand, and knelt down on it in front of Crowley.

"That's it. Give me your feet - there we go. Ready?"

Crowley nodded again, once, and then - _oh_. Oh, that was _good_.

The heat of the miracle flooded into his feet, between frozen toes and over frosted scales, tingling gently as it slid through old scars. The warmth of it seemed to suffuse his whole body, tracking up his legs to his torso and spreading outwards from there. It felt _wonderful_.

"Mmmmmm."

Aziraphale looked up at him, a spark of hope in his eyes. Crowley blinked for a second, surprised, then swore softly.

"Made a right mess of this, haven't I?"

"Just a tad," said Aziraphale stiffly. "You feeling better now?"

"Much." Crowley remembered the tea, and lifted it to his lips, allowing himself to inhale the steam for a moment until he was ready to take a sip. It smelt like gingerbread. Probably one of those limited edition Christmas ones. "Thank you, angel. Sorry about that."

"Not at all." Satisfied, finally, that Crowley was on the mend, Aziraphale stood and then sank down into the chair opposite.

His posture suggested exhaustion, but the angel's eyes were bright and focused, watching the demon's every move. He hadn't felt this surveilled by Aziraphale since... what? The sixties? 1020? 537? No, not even then. Not even Rome, or Golgotha, or Mesopotamia. Not even on the Wall.

"What on Earth were you doing out there?"

There was a slight hardness to Aziraphale's voice now. Crowley ducked his head.

"It's Christmas tomorrow. Thought I'd come and see what you were up to. Got to thinking about... about past years. Must've gotten a bit carried away."

"Why didn't you come in?"

"I..." He didn't really know where to begin with explaining that one. He thought Aziraphale might have understood why. Maybe he did, but he wanted to hear Crowley say it anyway. "It's not for me, really, is it? Christmas. Bit too... Y'know. Upstairs-y."

"I don't know if you noticed while you were up there, but it most certainly is _not_."

Crowley blinked.

The angel sighed. "Christmas is very firmly an _Earthly_ celebration. Heaven couldn't care less whether or not humans exchange gifts or decorate trees or even attend Midnight Mass. As far as _they're_ concerned, if it helps the humans do good and end up going to their side, then it's fine, but _they_ won't be getting involved, thank you very much. Too many 'material objects' and _far_ too much 'gross matter' for their liking."

"Oh."

Aziraphale tilted his head a little at the demon, looking him up and down. He seemed to decide something, resettling his hands in his lap in preparation to speak. Crowley took another sip of his tea and tried to look like he was giving his full attention without looking too eager.

"Crowley," the angel began. "I know you struggle a bit with this time of year. I'm sorry that it's... difficult for you. I know you feel left out of certain traditions, and it's been that way for far too long, but I... I want you to know it doesn't have to be like that any longer." Aziraphale leaned forwards, hands on his knees, and looked Crowley directly in the eye, through his sunglasses and into his very _being_. "You never have to be alone again if you don't want to be."

The demon didn't quite expect the first thing out of his mouth to be a sob. But when it was, he gave into it.

Aziraphale was there in an instant. "Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry. It's okay, there we go, I've got you."

The mug in his hands disappeared. Strong arms around a thick blanket held him steady, and Crowley couldn't help but curl a little into himself to ride out this sudden wave of emotion. The warm, heavy weight on his lap, he found, was a hot water bottle, and he held it like a lifeline, squeezing probably tighter than was advisable.

When it subsided, Crowley pulled off his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes, and decided to leave them off. Aziraphale knew him well enough to not react to his eyes by now. And it was nice to feel comfortable around someone else.

The angel retreated back to the chair opposite. Crowley wished he'd stayed on the sofa next to him, but there was no not-weird way of saying that.

"So, uh..." he began, scrambling for something to talk about that seemed normal, natural. "What've you been up to lately?"

"Oh, you know," Aziraphale said casually, falling into their usual talk at once. "Pottering around here. Noting what Adam added to my collection. Checking to see nothing was missing. Getting ready for Christmas."

The angel swallowed then, and looked suddenly nervous. He stood and moved to his desk for a moment, returning with a small, square, plain white envelope.

"I wrote a card," he said, a tad sheepishly. "I thought I might... Well, I thought I'd put it through your door tomorrow if I didn't see you. And I decorated a little, in case you came over."

Crowley looked around the bookshop properly for the first time since he'd arrived. Aziraphale was right - he _had_ decorated, but to call it 'a little' was a rather large understatement.

The shelves were all garlanded - either with fairy lights tucked between books, or with tinsel draped over the top shelves, or with brightly-coloured paper chains arcing between the stacks. Little ornaments - elves and angels and Father Christmases and snow globes - sat wherever there was room. And in the centre of the shop, under the glass dome, was a frankly enormous Christmas tree.

The thing that caught his attention, though, now he looked, was the mistletoe. There was a sprig of it pinned above the entrance to the shop. And another, there over Aziraphale's desk. And again, where the stairs to the first floor were. And...

Crowley looked upwards in awe at the little pearly berries suspended over his head. The spray was small and dainty, narrow leaves perfectly framing those dangerous little beads, and it was unmistakably placed exactly where Crowley always sat. Not to mention that the angel had guided him to sit precisely here not that long ago.

"Oh," he said intelligently. "You've put up..."

"I might have gone a little overboard with that. I wanted to make sure you got the message. And give myself as many chances as possible to... summon up the courage."

"Right. Yeah, well, uh. You've certainly done that."

Aziraphale's cheeks had turned a remarkable shade of pink. "I mean, we don't have to - I wasn't - it's a silly tradition, and if that's not something you're interested - please don't take this in any sort of, ah, untoward way-"

"Angel." Aziraphale instantly shut up. "It's fine. It's... actually, it's way better than fine. I-"

Crowley bit off his words with a wry smile, and hoped his own blush wasn't clashing horribly with his hair. "I'd come over to you, but I've just had a near-discorporation experience, and this hot water bottle is weighing me down a little, and - well, the mistletoe is over here, not there."

If Crowley ever thought he'd seen Aziraphale light up before, that was nothing to this. The light of a thousand suns exploded across his face, and if Crowley didn't know better he'd have thought the angel's halo had manifested as his grin.

Aziraphale stood, and stepped across the small space.

"I, um..."

"Hey, angel," Crowley murmured gently. He reached out and caught one of Aziraphale's hands in his. Slowly, carefully, he brought the fingers to his lips and placed a kiss there reverently, looking up at the angel the whole time.

"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped at the contact.

The demon tensed. "What?"

Aziraphale gave a small smile. "Your lips are _freezing_."

Crowley laughed then, harder than he had in weeks. "Better come and warm them up for me, then, angel."

And he did. A sudden contact, soft at first, then firmer, more confident. They broke apart, and Crowley squeezed the hand that was still in his.

"You're shaking, angel."

"At least you're not anymore."

"Touché."

They kissed again, and again, each stronger than the last, each more sure - surer than anything they'd ever experienced before. [3] When they came up for air, they giggled and blushed and pecked at each other's cheeks, and then when they kissed again they did it deeper, with the knowledge of a love many thousands of years old.

When they'd finished, [4] Aziraphale sat down beside Crowley and threw an arm around his shoulders, pressing another warming miracle into his back. The demon sighed into it, and rested his head in the crook of the angel's neck.

"Must have caused a few awkward moments, that," Crowley said, nodding upwards towards the greenery suspended overhead. "Customers getting the wrong impression and the like."

"Oh, of course. Many an uncomfortable moment. Even Gabriel came in at one point - that was quite something."

Crowley made to pull away in shock, but then he recognised a playful note in the angel's voice. "Bastard," he whispered lovingly.

"No, I shut up shop a couple of weeks ago. Apparently the decorations draw more customers in, and I couldn't be dealing with that, not at this time of year." Aziraphale gave a slight wiggle, apparently pleased with his thwarting of the local Christmas shoppers, and Crowley didn't even try to cover his besotted smile.

"Had the place to yourself, then. Sounds wonderful."

"It could have been better," the angel admitted softly. "I had hoped, now that we're no longer expected to encourage and avoid the sorts of celebrations that go on this time of year... I thought you might drop by."

"I would've, if you'd asked."

"Yes. I need to get better at that, don't I?"

"Mmm. Think we need a rule - no more puppy-dog eyes, you just come out and say what you want, yeah? Deal?"

"Same goes for you, too, I assume?"

Crowley frowned. "Aziraphale, when have I ever asked you for anything?"

"I'm pretty sure you asked me to try and save the world."

"...Fair point. Okay, no more talking you into things either, then. Just asking and answering and leaving it at that. Deal?"

"Deal." Aziraphale squeezed the arm around Crowley's shoulders, hugging him sideways as he turned to plant a kiss amidst the demon's fiery locks. "Now, what was that about 'puppy-dog eyes'...?"

* * *

Winter, it turned out, was a brilliant season. Still deathly cold outside, yes, but from indoors, from the safety and comfort of a warm, loving home, it was wonderful. There was food, stories, laughter, time spent with loved ones, music, unity, and kindness. And it was all so incredibly Earthly, so perfectly human, and so amazingly, gloriously, _them_.

There was never again a single midwinter that Aziraphale and Crowley spent apart.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 For hereditary-enemies reasons, of course. Not because having his oldest friend relish enjoying a thing that explicitly excluded Crowley made him feel awful, or anything. No. Definitely not that. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Later, Crowley would discover this was entirely true - the 14th century was during the transition from the Medieval Warm Period to the Little Ice Age, and average temperature was on a steady trajectory _down_. [return to text]
> 
> 3 And that was a hell of a lot. [return to text]
> 
> 4 They never really finished, this would always feel new to them - always special and treasured and hopeful. [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**
> 
> The prompts for this fic were: 'celebrating Christmas (or another winter holiday) together after the averted apocalypse' (I think this kinda counts); 'mistletoe' (check!); and 'Christmas through the ages' (fairly happy with my shoe-horning in of that).
> 
> The one prompt I didn't manage to get in was 'seeing snow for the first time' (but I have written that before: check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672625/chapters/69683667)!).
> 
> I hope you like what I did with your ideas, ineffable-snowman! Happy Holidays!


End file.
